


And

by brooklinegirl



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 13:14:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brooklinegirl/pseuds/brooklinegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard really likes seeing the marks he's left on Frank. (Written for no_tags 2013, Prompt: #23 - Gerard Way/Frank Iero - rough aftershow sex.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	And

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my FABULOUS betas! mrsronweasley encouraged me, supported me, and did a swift and thorough beta for me, and was right about everything. shiningartifact was my partner in this whole process, and worked so closely with me, and cheerleaded when I needed it, and betaed the HELL out of this over the course of a very busy day. I could not have done this without either of these girls. ♥

Frank has a bruise on his arm. It's on the inside of his wrist, almost obscured by the ink there, but Gerard can see it, the dark splotch of bruising. 

It's distracting - he's supposed to be doing his make-up, but he keeps tilting his head towards Frank, looking at his wrist. Bruises aren't unusual for Frank, but Gerard can't stop looking at this particular one. He thinks about after the show last night, about holding Frank up against the wall in the dressing room afterwards, his hand sweaty as he'd pressed it over Frank's mouth. About how he'd rutted up against him, pinning him to the wall as Frank moaned against his hand and struggled - not to get away, but to get Gerard to hold onto him harder, tighter.

Frank glances up from where he's thumbing through a magazine and grins at Gerard. He's perched on the dressing room table, just in jeans and a loose t-shirt, wristband around one arm, the one without the bruise. 

Gerard doesn't stop watching him, and Frank grins a little wider, then goes back to his magazine, his hair falling against his face as he ducks his head.

Frank throws himself all over the stage every night. You'd have to pin a guy pretty hard to get a bruise like that. It's probably not from Gerard.

*

This tour has been a little rough. Maybe it's touring with Linkin Park - the band, the fans, even the crew is so fucking different from their own band. Backstage has a whole different feel to it - it had taken Gerard about a week to pin it down before he realized that it was like navigating the hallways in high school, never sure which side you might take a hit from.

It got easier when Mikey finally came back, about a million times easier - it's never the fucking same being on stage without Mikey. _Nothing_ is the same. Having him back is a shot of much-needed adrenaline, and Gerard can tell that the whole band feels it.

Tonight Gerard comes off stage feeling too sweaty, too hot, and totally wrecked - they gave their fucking _all_ out there. He's barely sidestage when Frank slams into him from behind, grabby hands clinging to Gerard's shoulders and sweaty hair up against his face. 

" _Yeah_ ," Frank shouts forcefully, joyfully, over the bustle and noise of backstage, like an answer to something Gerard never asked. " _Fuck_ , yeah." He says it decisively, and licks the sweat off Gerard's cheek. 

He slides off of Gerard almost immediately to launch himself at Mikey, and Gerard's back feels cold, damp t-shirt and denim jacket clinging to him. Mikey hits the floor under the weight of Frank's tackle, the two of them knocking over a set of folding chairs that had been resting neatly against the wall with a giant clatter. 

Ray and Bob step over the both of them, Ray grinning and Bob shaking his head, but Gerard stumbles getting around the chairs, long enough that Frank has a chance to grab onto his leg and start hauling himself off the ground. He's panting and grinning up at Gerard - he looks ridiculous, insane, but when he grabs onto the waist of Gerard's jeans, shoving his fingers inside as a handhold, Gerard can only bite his lip, hard, and reach down to tug Frank up off the ground. 

"He's a menace," Mikey comments, pushing himself to his feet as soon as Frank is a safe distance away. "Can't you do something about him? Sedate him? Something?"

" _Something_?" Frank's stumbling along beside Gerard, smirking. Mikey rolls his eyes and heads down the crowded hall. 

"Yeah," Gerard says, even though Mikey's too far away to hear. He shifts his grip on Frank so he's got him by the wrist. When he glances over, Frank's got a shifty, bright expression on his face. Gerard can feel Frank's wrist bones under his palm, and his pulse kicks up, sharp and sudden. "Yeah," he says again.

Frank just grins, leaning heavily up against Gerard's side, daring him.

Gerard is hesitating, looking down at him, his face so close, considering, when a door slams open down the hall and it's Brian - of course it's Brian. 

"What are you doing?" Brian asks. "Stop it, Frank," he adds distractedly. 

"I wasn't!" Frank says it on a giggle, like Gerard hadn't been just about to -

"Whatever it was, you were thinking about it." Brian sounds tired and cranky, and he shoves on both of their shoulders, steering them down the hall, a tiny force of nature behind them. "Bus call in ten, hotel night tonight, no signing."

"You said hotel night _last_ night, and you _lied_ ," Frank calls back over his shoulder. "We drove all fucking night and it blew!"

"Not my fault you don't read the fucking schedule." Brian's got a death grip on both of them, scanning the hallway. "I post it on the door every night."

"I'll post it on your _face_ ," Frank says, leaning forward in Brian's grip like he's a dog on a leash.

"Ray and Bob are already on the bus." Brian's up on his toes, brow furrowing. "Where's your goddamn brother, Gerard?"

"Probably banging his wife!" Frank's tone is delighted, and seriously, he might actually need to be sedated. 

Brian looks at Gerard.

Gerard thinks for a second, and shrugs. "Probably, yeah."

"Get him," Brian orders Gerard.

Gerard sighs and goes.

*

They kill the next night, they _own_ the crowd, and come offstage giddy and victorious. Frank tugs his t-shirt off in the dressing room, wiping his face with it, and he's got a vivid bruise, high on his biceps, stark against his skin. It's new - the skin stained dark purple - and Gerard has a sudden flashback of slamming him against the wall in the hotel stairwell the night before. He'd done it hard, and Frank had just grabbed onto Gerard's face and kissed him, rough and messy, then shoved his hand into Gerard's jeans. 

Frank's watching him when Gerard blinks and the dressing room comes back into focus. He runs his fingers over the bruise, still looking at Gerard, before grabbing a towel. "Gonna shower," he says. "Wanna go sign for the kids after?"

That's not exactly what Gerard wants to do, but he manages a nod. When he leaves the room, he goes outside to smoke, instead of following Frank to the shower where he could pin him against the slippery tiles and bite bruises into his thighs.

*

They make it through Arizona, Texas, Georgia - a southern tour at the height of summer. It's oppressive and scorching everywhere they play, but it's not until Florida that they get another blessed hotel night - unplanned, but the heat wave is vicious. It's more than the bus air conditioning can take, and Frank has been looking drained and wan, wilting in the heat. He's prone to summer fevers and Ray teases him about being a Jane Austen character, or a Disney princess.

Brian just looks apprehensive when he sees Frank sacked out on the bus couch. He disappears with his cell phone for a while and comes back with the address of a hotel scribbled on a scrap of paper. 

Brian hands out key cards in the hotel lobby, and Gerard switches with Bob, who looks relieved - in the frigid air conditioning of the hotel, Frank comes back to life like someone flipped a switch. He climbs on Bob, scaling him to try to reach the top of the very fake ficus in the hotel foyer and when he tumbles off, he rolls into the wall with a bang. He sits up rubbing his head, but looking very pleased with himself.

"Take him," Bob says grimly. "Good luck."

*

Gerard takes Frank to their room, and pushes him onto one of the beds, still in his grimy stage clothes. Frank is all over the place, fierce and quick, but Gerard climbs on top of him, pinning him down with his hands and hips. He kisses him, and Frank is breathless, laughing, squirming away at first, biting at Gerard's neck, digging his heels into the back of Gerard's thighs. 

Gerard doesn't let him go - he keeps kissing him, until Frank sinks down against the bed, his arms and legs wrapped around Gerard now, holding him close and rocking up against him. They make out there for - Gerard doesn't even know how long, he just knows that they're both breathless and hard when Frank finally pulls away. 

"Please," Frank pants out finally, struggling up against Gerard. "Please, I want - let's - " He plants his feet on the bed and lifts his hips, tipping Gerard off of him.

Gerard tumbles off, and Frank struggling with his own button, his zipper, finally getting them open. Gerard pushes himself to sitting, watching Frank get on his knees up against the headboard, filthy jeans halfway down his thighs, and it feels like something snaps inside his brain.

He pushes his jacket off and knees his way up the bed with his boots still on, he doesn't give a fuck. He tugs off his shirt and gets his own jeans open. His dick is huge and hard - it's turning him on just to look at it. When he wraps his hand around it, it's like he can feel his pulse thrumming against his fingers.

Frank is cursing him out, his knuckles white against the headboard. "Come the fuck _on_ , come on, come _on_."

"Shut up." Gerard can barely get the words out, can't get his brain to focus on more than the fucking. "Shut up, just - "

"I'll shut up when you fucking _fuck_ me, I'll -" Frank cuts off as Gerard reaches around to shove two fingers in his mouth. The moan Frank gives as he sucks on them, messy and slick, is obscene, and Gerard's pressing his dick up against Frank's ass in the same rhythm as Frank's mouth on his fingers. Jesus Christ, he wants this.

He pulls his fingers out, plants his other hand on Frank's back as he presses his fingers into Frank's ass. Frank gasps, loud, but fuck, he's ready. It's tight and not entirely slick, but Frank gives a stuttered, broken groan when Gerard twists his fingers inside, and it's enough. 

"Now," Frank's chanting, his cheek pressed against the wall, his eyes closed, sounding tight and demanding. "Now, now, _now_ , fucking _now_."

Gerard shoves Frank's t-shirt up under his arms, fascinated by the shift of the tattoos on his skin there, the sweat sliding over his skin. He wants to see more. He wants to see it all. He wants to see his own marks mixed in with the ink.

Frank curses again, loud, and when Gerard slowly pushes in, Frank breaks off into high, steady moans. 

"Don't -" Frank's saying, scrabbling at the headboard, at the wall, looking for something to hold onto. "Don't - don't - don't stop, don't _stop_. Keep - keep on -"

He breaks off again, and Gerard can hear him panting for breath. Gerard doesn’t stop, keeps pushing in, the smooth tightness of Frank around him exactly what he he's needed all fucking day.

He can't hold still once he's all the way in, can't stop his hips from thrusting, grinding, shoving into Frank. He presses him hard against the wall, feels him panting for air, feels the skidding of his knees as he tries to spread further, take more. Gerard's heart is beating loud in his ears, his hands are slippery with sweat, and he watches the skin on Frank's hips turn white as he digs in with his fingers as hard as he can. 

"Yeah," Frank grinds out, shoving back hard. "Yeah, yeah, fucking -"

Gerard presses his forehead against the back of Frank's neck. He's panting, gasping, and making these small noises that he can't hold back. He's so fucking desperate for this, and Frank's jerking and sliding against him, he won't hold still so that Gerard can just _give_ it to him. 

Frank tilts his head to the side, his hair plastered against his face with sweat, his mouth open and wet. His eyes are closed and he squeezes them shut harder every time Gerard shoves inside him. Gerard can feel the shift of Frank's arm as Frank starts stroking himself off. 

Gerard wants to keep fucking Frank forever - feels like he maybe _could_. He's gasping against Frank's neck, and he wants to do this, hold on, keep _going_. He presses his mouth against the side of Frank's neck where it's slick and salty with sweat, sucking hard against the skin. Frank shudders and Gerard can feel the reverberation of Frank's moans against his lips.

When Gerard bites down, just a little, just to see what happens, Frank's whole body jerks, and he curses loud and slurred, his arm moving fast as he strokes himself harder, and comes. 

Gerard feels it from the inside, and he can't - he has to - He yanks Frank backwards off the wall, slipping out for an agonizing moment before he shoves him down against the bed, face first, dragging his hips up and pushing in again, hard. His hand is planted against Frank's back and he's about to - he needs to - 

He comes, hard, and he's still making too much noise, not even words, just _sounds_. When he manages to blink his eyes open, he's draped over Frank's back, his face against Frank's hair, where it smells like sweat and dirt, sweet, _real_. 

He spits a lock of Frank's hair out of his mouth and Frank grins, with his face pressed sideways against the bed.

"Gonna feel _that_ in the morning," Frank mumbles, his voice rough. 

"Yeah," Gerard says softly, his cheek damp against Frank's neck. 

*

Frank is up and showered by the time Gerard manages to crack his eyes open the next morning. Gerard feels like an old man crawling out of bed, every muscle sore. 

Frank's dressed already, hoodie layered on over his t-shirt against the cranked hotel a/c, and Gerard makes a face at him as he stumbles to the bathroom. 

Frank just grins and flops down on the other bed, grabbing the remote. "We could have showered together, but you snooze, you lose."

Gerard brushes his teeth blearily and it's not until he's in the shower, cranked up as hot as he can get it, that he starts thinking about what he missed this morning. Frank in the shower, all slippery skin and dark ink. What marks does he have, now? 

Gerard jerks off with his head hanging down and the water pounding against the back of his neck. He thinks about his fingers digging into Frank's hips last night, hanging on so tight. He thinks about pinning Frank to the bed, his hand wide and firm against Frank's back, and he comes thinking about the marks already on Frank's arms, fading a little and mixing in against the tattoos.

They're late for bus call by the time he gets out of the shower. When he opens the bathroom door with a towel wrapped around his waist, it's to Brian's angry face and arms crossed over his chest, Frank giggling apologetically behind him. 

*

The hotel nights always leave everyone a little more peaceful, and when the bus pulls out of the parking lot with a screech and a groan, there's an easy silence - everyone lost in coffee and still just waking up, the bright sunlight outside seeming more welcoming, less fierce.

Frank's curled up on one of the seats in the lounge - it's less hot today, and the a/c's working better, like the bus knows they're on their way out of Florida, on to more temperate climates. He's got his knees up, and his hair is getting so long, curling over his cheek, his neck, like it does only when it's truly clean.

Gerard watches as Frank stretches, sighs, then pushes off his hoodie. He balls it up, using it as a pillow against the window. He'll be asleep in minutes, Gerard's pretty sure.

Gerard sips his coffee, watching as Frank tilts his head back, his eyes sleepy as he stares out at the scenery zooming by. His t-shirt, too big on him to begin with, slides down his neck a little, and the darker edge of what could be a tattoo appears. 

Except Frank doesn't have a tattoo there. Gerard's staring, he knows he is, but it draws the eye - this vivid bruise riding up over the edge of Frank's stretched-out collar, the uneven edge of it standing out darkly against the white of his t-shirt. 

He jerks his eyes up to Frank's face, but Frank's eyes are closed already, his eyelashes dark against his cheeks. Gerard's gaze drops to his neck again, where the dark splotch on his neck seems indecent, seems _obvious_. Gerard darts his eyes over to Mikey, feeling as though Frank's neck should draw everyone's eye, but Mikey has his earbuds in and isn't even paying attention to Gerard, let alone Frank.

Gerard slouches back on the sofa, pulling his knees up and resting his feet on the seat. His dick would like him to know that it's sixteen again, please. His dick would like him to know that it really likes that glimpse of bruise visible on Frank's collarbone; his dick would really like to know where else there might be bruises.

Gerard breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth and carefully moves his eyes away from Frank. Still, all he can see is Frank's hips and all he can think about is Frank's jeans sliding down. Just a little ways down his hips, just enough so that Gerard could know for sure if he'd left finger-shaped bruises there. On both sides, right around the belt line. His jeans wouldn't have to slip down far at all.

Gerard groans very, very softly to himself and shuts his eyes. 

*

Frank is frenzied on stage that night, flinging himself about with clumsy abandon. He falls into the drum riser twice, coming up grinning each time. The few times he settles at his mic, his hair is in his face, his mouth open as he plays, looking exactly the way he does when he comes.

Gerard's hand clenches so tight around the mic that it hurts.

Ray's looking at Gerard all concerned after the show, like Gerard's the crazy one, instead of Frank, like Gerard's the one acting like a lunatic on stage and off.

"Are you okay?" Ray asks softly, drawing Gerard into the dressing room. "Do you need - anything?"

The pause is loaded, and even after all this time, Gerard fills it in with the worst possible things - a meeting? A drink? A lobotomy?

Frank tumbles in the door to the dressing room, dragging Mikey after him, laughing loud and raucous, flinging sweat everywhere when he shakes his head like a wet dog. "Your brother," he announces to the room at large, which currently consists of Gerard, with Ray hovering uncertainly over him. "Has just entered into a little wager with me."

"Oh God." Ray looks even more concerned now.

Frank jumps up onto the couch and starts pacing the length of it, teetering unsteadily on the cushions. "His contention is that he will blow Brian Molko before the end of this tour."

"Oh God." Ray says it in the exact same tone of voice as before.

" _My_ contention is that Mikey will give me fifty bucks and announce on stage that he has failed to blow Brian Molko by the end of this tour." Frank is grinning, wide and bright, and he flings his arms out to make his point, twisting to catch himself on the arm of the couch when he immediately loses his balance and almost topples off.

Mikey shrugs one shoulder, raising his hand to push up glasses that aren't there anymore - Gerard's not used to him not needing them anymore, either - then dropping it. "I just said I would do it." He comes over and drops into one of the chairs at the dressing table, next to Gerard. "If the opportunity arose. Frank's the one who said it was a bet."

"You said it!" Frank shouts gleefully. "You shook on it!"

"Did you?" Ray asks, looking curious.

Mikey's mouth twitches up on one side, and he shrugs again. "Alicia's in for twenty," he says in an aside to Gerard. "On me."

Alicia, Gerard thinks, is the best thing that ever happened to Mikey. 

"Only ten shows left!" Frank is pointing at Mikey. "You gotta get out there, get your groove on."

"I'm good," Mikey says.

"A bet's a bet." Frank sprawls on the couch with a contented sigh. 

"I'm good," Mikey says again, slow and sure, and did anyone in the world have a cooler younger brother than Gerard? Brian Molko, man. 

"Okay." Ray scrubs his hands over his face. "I'm gonna just - where's Bob?" He looks sharply at Frank.

"I'm not sure," Frank says. 

"What did you do?" Ray says, sounding tired.

Frank holds his hands up but he's fighting a grin. "Nothing!"

"I - okay." Ray puts one hand on Gerard's shoulder. "I'm gonna go find Bob. Are you good? Are you sure?"

"Yeah." Sure. "I'm good. I just need -"

"You should find Brian, too," Frank interrupts, then adds hastily, "Uh, don't tell them I'm here, okay? Maybe say I went out to sign." He stretches on the couch, and his t-shirt, already see-through where it's soaked with sweat, rides up. 

Gerard can't look away. He can't even see anything much from here, but he can't look away.

"Mikey," Gerard says, his voice coming out a little weird. "Do you need to go…somewhere?" It wasn't what he'd meant to say. He hadn't meant to say _anything_. Maybe he _is_ the one acting like a lunatic. 

"Why?" Mikey asks, not looking up from his phone.

Frank waggles his eyebrows at Gerard from the couch, and Gerard drops his face into his hands. 

"You should go with Ray," Frank says firmly. 

When Gerard peeks through his fingers, Frank's arching up a little so he can tuck his fingers into his jeans pockets.

Gerard's going to die. 

"C'mon," Ray says, tugging on Mikey's shoulder. "They're weird this tour."

"Why?" Mikey says, looking back over his shoulder as Ray pulls him out of the room. "Because they're fucking?"

Gerard hears Ray say frantically, "Don't ask, don't _tell_ , Mikey!" just before the door closes behind them.

"Not subtle," Gerard says to Frank, but his mouth is dry, just watching Frank on the couch.

"Wasn't trying," Frank replies, and wiggles his feet in his sneakers before pushing himself off the couch the next second. He's laughing and trying to climb into Gerard's lap, but that isn’t what Gerard needs. He pushes Frank away, and Frank's stumbles back against the dressing room table. 

"What?" he asks, breathless, grinning. "You don't want a lapdance? I was gonna give you a lapdance."

"No." Gerard gets right up in front of Frank, his head down as he fumbles with Frank's jeans. "I don't want a lapdance." 

"What, then?" Frank tilts his hips forward.

The button finally gives and Frank makes a soft sound in his throat as Gerard tugs his jeans open. He's hard, yeah, but Gerard's not looking at his dick. He's tracing his fingers over the marks, now clear on Frank's hips. Soft bruising - Gerard was right, it's not as dark as the one on Frank's neck - but clearly there, on the pale skin of his hips.

"Oh," Frank says, as Gerard traces his fingers lightly over the bruises on each side. "That." 

Gerard looks up at him, and Frank hitches in a breath when Gerard presses his hands down right over the marks. "Does it hurt?" Gerard's voice comes out steadier than he thought it would. 

Frank shakes his head jerkily. "Uh-uh." He's got himself braced with his hands behind him, leaning on the table, and he's backlit by the lights around the mirror. His jeans have slid down his hips and he's not moving, he's just staring down, watching Gerard's hands against his skin.

Gerard breathes out and watches Frank's face as he presses harder over the bruises. Frank's eyes flutter shut and his hips kick out a little.

And just like that, Gerard is so hard he can hardly even _think_ straight.

Frank swallows, and blinks his eyes open. "Here," he says.

Gerard is so turned on, he can't even figure out what that means, what _words_ mean, but Frank is nudging his jeans down further, twisting his hips so Gerard can see - oh. On the side of his thigh, spreading wider than Gerard's hand, a vivid bruise - older, fading a little to purple and green, still looking vicious.

Gerard looks up at Frank's face.

"A few nights ago." Frank's breathing harder. Gerard hasn’t even touched him yet. "When we were making out in the stairwell. You pushed me against the railing. I didn't notice, but -" 

Gerard's got his hands on his belt, he wants his _dick_ out, but he can't stop looking down at the wide bruise. When he gets to one knee (so he can see it up close, so he can trace it with his tongue), Frank gasps, and his dick jerks against Gerard's cheek. 

"Here." Frank's voice is strangled above him, but Gerard's busy, his fingers on Frank's hip - he can't see the finger marks, not from here where he's staring at the dark, dark bruise on his thigh, but he's still digging in a little, like he'll find them by feel alone. "Gerard. Gee. Fuckin' - _Gee_."

Gerard looks up, where Frank's hauling his shirt off. His hair is left rumpled, and his face is desperate, gorgeous, wrecked. He's marked up all over - scrapes mixed with ink mixed with bruises, he fucking destroys himself on stage every night - but he's twisting his arm so Gerard can see the mark there, almost lost against the tattoos. 

Frank's staring down at him. "You," he says. "It's from you."

Gerard pushes himself to his feet, hanging on to Frank's hips, doing it slowly because he can't take his eyes off of it. He wants to see. It's right there, the dark circle where he'd held on tight, too tight, knowing it would leave a mark, _wanting_ it to leave a mark. "Yeah?" he says, hoarse, and Frank nods, breathing hard.

"Yeah," he says, and fumbles at Gerard's belt, finally just digging his fingers in to the waist of his jeans and dragging him forward. "Fucking yeah, you -"

He kisses Gerard hard and messy, groaning against his mouth when his dick slides up against the rough denim of Gerard's jeans. Gerard is so fucking hard, so _fucking_ hard. 

"Please." It's him, he's gasping it out, and he's not even sure - "Please, _please_."

Frank's hands are rough up against his shoulders, hanging on, panting against the side of Gerard's face as Gerard pulls away for a frantic second to get his jeans open, gets his dick out. Then he's back up against Frank, kissing him as Frank tilts his head all the way back, just taking it.

"I -" Gerard wants to tell him, he wants to say it, wants to find a way to put it into words, explain it all out loud. "I -" But all he can do is shove himself forward, again and again, his dick sliding slickly against Frank's hip, against ink mixed with bruises, some from Gerard, some from the stage, all of it his.

Frank's hands are in Gerard's hair now, his hips jerking forward, growling hard and biting Gerard's lip as he comes, fuck, head of his dick skidding against Gerard's thigh.

"Fuck," Gerard gasps out. "Fuck, Frank. "

Frank's eyes are shut tight and he's still gasping as he shakes his head a little, his head falling to one side. The bruise on his neck, at the curve of his shoulder, angry, intense, is right there in front of Gerard's face. 

Frank groans when Gerard puts his mouth over it, and Gerard's hips jerk forward. His dick is pressed against Frank's hip, and he can't stop. He can't stop _any_ of this. He can't stop thrusting against Frank's skin; he can't bring himself to take his mouth off of Frank's neck. 

Frank's moans go high and tight at just the smallest nudge of Gerard's teeth against his skin. Gerard's so fucking into that, he thinks he might - he's going to - 

He jerks and comes, feeling almost shocked as it rocks through him, pressed up as tight as he can get against Frank.

"Jesus," he gasps. "Jesus, Jesus _Christ_." His lips are moving against Frank's skin, against that bruised, mottled skin, and he shudders, pushing his slowly softening cock against the slick skin of Frank's hip. 

Frank's hands are still in his hair, looser now, just holding on. "So," he says, slurring a little bit. "That was -"

He breaks off when Gerard lifts his head to look at him. His tone had been joking, but Gerard has never felt less like joking in his life. Frank is sagging back limply against the table, completely undone - his hair is in his face, his jeans have slid even further down his thighs, and his knees look like they're about to give out. 

Gerard starts to ease his hands off of Frank's hips, feeling like he has to deliberately unclench his fingers one at a time. 

Frank's hands tighten in his hair again, and he pulls Gerard forward, kissing him, lips loose and soft like he barely has the energy even for that. There's something profoundly intimate about it, something that makes Gerard's heart get hot and tight. 

When he pulls away, Frank loosens his fingers from Gerard's hair and lets go. His eyes are closed and his cheeks are flushed. "That was -" he says again, but his tone this time is hushed.

"Yeah," Gerard says. "Yeah."

*

Frank plays the next night in jeans and a thick hoodie. He's subdued, for Frank - staying mostly in place, hood up, covered head to toe, except for the torn-out knees of his jeans, the bare skin there looking weirdly exposed, even though it's just his bony knees. 

Both Ray and Brian checked him for a fever before the show - it's still summer, eighty degrees easy, no reason for Frank to be cold - but Frank just shrugged and pushed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. "I'm fine," he said. "I just like it."

After the show, Gerard works his way through the bustle and noise of backstage. He'd lost Frank immediately, didn't even see him get pulled away by the crowd. Mikey's still with him, close by his shoulder, nudging him in the direction of their dressing room when Gerard would have veered off down the wrong corridor. 

"It changes every night," Gerard says. He feels flustered, discombobulated.

"Different venues," Mikey responds, his tone sympathetic. 

The dressing room feels too small, like it's tight around Gerard's skin, and he balks when he walks through the doorway, stopping abruptly. 

Mikey easily sidesteps him. He puts a hand on his shoulder and turns him around. "Go smoke," he says. 

"Yeah." Gerard's grateful, relieved - Mikey knows him, Mikey _gets_ him.

He makes it out back, only vaguely noticing Mehdi drifting behind him, a safe and constant presence. It's warm and dark behind the venue, cut off from the parking lot, and Gerard breathes a sigh of relief as the door closes heavily behind them. 

Frank's out there, a younger security guard at his side, looking relieved as he sees Medhi. Mehdi nods towards the door and the kid hurries back inside. Mehdi wanders away a little, careful and easy as he gives Gerard and Frank some privacy.

Frank's leaning against the wall, smoking, hood up, watching as Gerard comes over. 

"Here," he says, holding out his pack, and Gerard takes it, relieved again, because his own are still back on the dressing room table. 

Frank hands over his lighter, too, and Gerard lights his smoke, and takes a drag, holding it in for as long as he can before breathing it out in a sigh. He leans his head back against the wall behind them, watching the smoke drift up against the dark sky. "Where are we, even?" he asks.

"Indiana." Frank understands him right away. "I think." He's got his head back, too, watching the stars. 

"The stars are brighter here." Gerard takes another drag, holds in the smoke until his lungs ache just right.

"Than in Jersey?" Frank asks, his lip curving up in a grin. 

"Well, yeah," Gerard says, because, yeah. "But brighter than I remembered. I don't know." He shakes his head, turning to lean against the wall with his shoulder so he can look at Frank. "I’m fucking tired."

"Yeah." Frank drops his cigarette and crushes it out under the toe of his sneaker. "Me too." 

He turns towards Gerard, and it feels very close and intimate. Like they weren't just in front of thousands of people, like they aren't stealing a few minutes out back here before diving back in to the commotion of the tour, like their bodyguard isn't standing a dozen feet away, talking softly on his phone and turned away from them to give them some tiny shred of solitude.

It's not real privacy, but Gerard will take it. "You _look_ tired." He studies Frank's face, the circles under his eyes. 

"I'm good." Frank smiles and shrugs, pushing his hood off. His hair is still a little damp with sweat, curling up against his neck. 

"Oh," Gerard says, and stops. "I mean," he continues, then stops again.

Frank's looking at him curiously. 

"Can I see?" Gerard says finally. He knows he's fixating. He knows he's crazy. He knows there's something here that's more than fucking and bruises. But he wants to see the spot, in the curve of Frank's neck. 

Frank raises an eyebrow briefly, the side of his mouth crooking up in a smile, before he hooks his finger into the neck of his hoodie, drags it to one side. 

Gerard leans closer and he can see the spot, a few days old now, shifting colors to a blotchy purple and green. "It looks like it hurts," he says softly. He realizes he has his fingers hovering up by Frank's neck, close to the bruise, but never touching. 

"It's a little sore." Frank's watching Gerard as he settles his hoodie back into place.

"Oh." Gerard thinks he should maybe feel bad about that. His cigarette is burning low in his hand and he takes a final quick drag before dropping it and crushing it out.

"I like it," Frank says then. 

"Oh," Gerard says again. He shifts a little closer to Frank.

Frank leans the side of his head against the wall. Their faces are really close and the air is hot and still out here. Gerard has a hundred things he wants to say, a thousand, but the words are all mixed up in his head.

Frank reaches out and grabs his hand, looping their fingers together, hidden in the shadows between their bodies. Gerard squeezes his hand, and Frank gives him a sleepy smile. 

They can stay out here in the dark for another few minutes. No one's in any hurry.

The end


End file.
